


Wanting

by Quiller



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Chaos is a ladder, Episode: s07e07 The Dragon and the Wolf, F/M, Life is Not a Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 18:50:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12114978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiller/pseuds/Quiller
Summary: A oneshot of the Winterfell storyline in the season 7 finale.





	Wanting

 

 

 

He'd been a fool to think a mockingbird could tame a wolf with pretty songs. A fool to think a wolf could hold a bird without giving into instinct, baring teeth, spilling blood. He should have known better- he'd dealt in dreams since his own had split his from top to bottom, renting him in two. They'd both known. _Life is not a song, sweetling,_ he'd told her. _Someday you will learn that, to your sorrow._ He longed for the life of a beautiful song, where a mockingbird could stand guard over his gentle lady wolf, where harm was a foreign dream, where the air spoke of love and kindness and their kisses told only of summer.

 

As a child he'd found casualties of the winter frost upon the Fingers- sparrows, wrens, lambkins, meek and mild, cloud eyed and curled in upon themselves. He remembered bringing a dead finch to the kitchens, cradling it in his hands, himself snot nosed and crying. How tender he'd been then, how soft and naive, bound in reverie, padded with sweet tales of lore, of gallant knights and maidens fair.

 

He remembered the kissing games he'd played in the godswood at Riverrun. He'd always loved games- he always won. Cat bounding up ahead, skirts in hand, red hair glinting in gold light like the flash of a trout's belly. And he always knew which way she'd turn. He'd scurry up the pale limbed godswood trees, climbing higher and higher, watching and waiting until the time came to drop down and she'd stumble into his grasp, the both of them giddy and laughing. He would always bow low and call her 'my lady', stomach fluttering, taking his prize in the eternal sunlight of childhood. Soft, chaste kisses that were forever seared into his memory, the only sort worthy to bestow upon a fair maid. Lips anointed with birdsong.

 

It was a different world that he found himself in now, one where ice slowly froze song in throat, where knights wore blood and lust more comfortably than love and gallantry, where bitter tales slid from ear to ear, taking root in rotted hearts, where fair maids were not saved from treacherous fates but instead lured and abandoned in fortresses manned by wild dogs, walls stretching so high the sun was blotted out. A world where everybody was part of the game. He played with kisses, but they weren't chaste kisses anymore, and the lips were often not his own. He played with bright smiles and whispered tales, with bought flesh, with borrowed gold and promises of glory, with copied birdsong in a den of wild beasts. Prizes were dealt in steel, in death cries, in hidden rooms and conversations, in doubt and a towering climb of bodies that brought him closer and closer to the hidden sun. He'd always loved games- he always won.

 

For her he was willing to lose. For her he would crawl into the cavern of ice, into the horde of hungry wolves, and he would stay and be devoured. He'd promised to stay and protect her, and he would do so now. He'd failed her before, but he wouldn't do it again. He would slaughter every beast he could before he was crushed under the weight of snow- raven, shadow, dragon, it mattered little to him.

 

'It's a pretty picture.' In the godswood, playing the kissing game again, after all this time. The snow maiden he'd once played with had since hardened to steel, the frost not biting her fingertips as it did him. He saw her eyes searching his as he sung to her of his lovely dream- doubt, fear, wanting, anger, sadness. All in those blue depths. All but joy. So far she'd drifted from him, when she was once tucked so closely under his wings. Once she had been his, in a life where all was borrowed. You'll be strong without me, he'd promised her. And she was. But he hadn't wanted it to happen like this. Maybe not at all. He'd become greedy and impatient, lax and stupid, allowing himself to live in a daydream, to let _her_ live in his daydream. He'd played the kissing game with her on the moon, he'd shown her that fish could fly and put her in charge of saving the mockingbird from falling. He told himself he was just whetting her taste for power, but it wasn't that. He'd slipped, and they both knew it.

 

She could forgive him of that, he was sure. She'd been so beautiful, furs crusted with snow, glittering like the corona he hoped to one day bestow upon her. 'In a better world', he'd told her, and for a moment they were both there. Not his child, not his captive, or his student, but his lady. In a world where he was still young and naive- just Petyr. Not Lord Baelish, not Littlefinger, no smiling, devious mask, no facets, no wanting, no greed. A world where he'd never been rent in two, no monster born of pain and heartache. A world where she would be safe and happy, shielded from all hurt, all tussle over her name, her position, the keys in her hand, where she'd be shielded from all who'd harm her- the Lannisters, the Boltons, Littlefinger. A world where he could be brave and honest and it mattered not that he was a boy from nowhere, with nothing to his name. Because love and justice always won in the end, and his lady love was always waiting for him with open arms, with a sharp mind and a smile.

 

_But we don't live in that world._

 

 Her kiss was still on his mouth as he left her in the crypt, Lyanna's statue at her back. They certainly didn't live in that world. But he'd try to build it for her, even if it caused her pain. One day, he hoped, he'd be able to wash it from her with the love that burned in his twisted heart, that he wouldn't have just made a monster in his own image. Jealousy burned in that bitter little heart of his as he thought of the Bolton boy stealing that kiss that was now branded on him, of holding her, having her. _It won't be like that_ , he told himself. _She'll make him hers, it isn't the same._ Perhaps he should have seen, but he was blinded. Was it lust for power, for her? Or was it that naive boy he once was, clinging to the tattered laws of goodness, that decreed no harm would befall the just maiden in wolf garb? Was it both?

 

 It didn't matter which. Because she wouldn't forgive him of this.

 

For Cat he'd been a boy, for the world a monster cloaked in smiles. For her, he'd be a man. A new man. A whole man. He'd burn the whole damned world to the ground, he'd build it anew, better, brighter. He'd breathe life into the dust and ashes and rule over it all. And she'd be with him.

 

_My love._ For her he'd bear the same punishment he'd once condemned her to, locking himself in the crypt with his enemies, struggling to breathe. The past was gone, but he'd slipped, and the future wasn't the one of his making. He was losing, yes, but he meant to see the game out until the end.

 

...

 

_What do you think he did?_

_I can't begin to contem-_  
_What do you think he did to me?_ A pained look flitted over those usually composed features, then was gone. _He beat you?_   His fingers clenching and unclenching in the confines of his heavy cloak. _He cut you?_  
_Maybe you did know about Ramsay all along._  
_I didn't know._  
Knowledge is power. He was losing, she'd seen that then.

 

'What about happy? Why aren't you happy? What do you want that you do not have?' She was looking away from him, staring out at the frozen courtyard. But she could feel him watching. He was always watching, it seemed. Waiting. _It doesn't matter what we want_ , she thought. _It never mattered. Life isn't a song, and greed is burrowed so deep into men's hearts that it has become their very lifeline_. _I cannot give into wanting._ Once she had wanted a crown upon her head, to be by the side of some young, noble king, his children in her belly. Just like a pretty song. To be remembered by history and minstrel's ballads- the fair queen Sansa, first of her name, who ruled with grace and a gentle spirit, her beauty remembered by the ages. She had wanted to flee to the false summer skies of King's Landing, to be anywhere but here.

 

She had seen firsthand where wanting had gotten her. She had always thought about what she wanted, never about what she had. In that regard, she was no different to any of her enemies. All driven by desire- for a great name, for security, for vengeance, for love. Littlefinger should have known better than to play his hand so openly. He'd told her himself- _if your enemies don't know what you want, they can't know what you plan to do next._ Wanting. Such a blatant, idiotic emotion. It left you weak and vulnerable. It didn't matter what she wanted, it never had. The human heart was fickle. Once it fulfilled one desire, it simply moved onto the next thing.

 

She was going to cut the wanting out of her, bit by bit. She'd often wondered what would be left of a person once that base need was gone. She was left with only the two mottos that had been drilled into her blood from the time she was born- _family, duty, honour_. That and the eternal promise that Winter was coming. Winter was here now, everything she'd known buried under the snow. _Family, duty, honour_. Sansa was no more, replaced by the Lady of Winterfell. _Family, duty, honour._ That was what she had left. To that she'd cling. Everyone had cut away at the girl she once was, piece by piece, trying to fill her with themselves, to make her sing their song. But voices carried far on the winter winds. So she'd close her mouth and keep her hand tucked away. What she wanted didn't matter, she told herself. In the face of Winter, all that mattered was those words.  _Family, duty, honour._ Without them she'd crumble.

 

_What do you want that you do not have?_

 

_Peace and quiet._ She spat the words out bitterly, but it was the truth. What she wouldn't give to wake in a land of silence, with none but herself. No past to haunt her, no future to worry of, no reflection to tease at the monstrous things that lay within her. 

 

_But we don't live in that world._

 

'No need to seize the last word, Lord Baelish. I'll assume it was something clever.' She saw his mouth twist into something like a hidden smile. 'My lady', he whispered gently to her as he retreated. _My love_. It was all the same to him, wasn't it? She had lashed out at him in warning, but he kept coming back to her, like a wounded curr to its master. Once, he had been so clever. He'd armoured himself in his truth, that knowledge was power, keeping his wanting so well hidden that many wondered if he had any at all. Oh, he was ambitious, he was always ambitious. Clever Littlefinger, producing gold like a magic trick, waiting around corners, always ready with a self-deprecating word, keeping his movements hidden, wrapped in other people's actions, in what they believed to be their own motives. But as to what he wanted?

 

She knew.

 

It was the dream of a child, one that stole into her mind far too often. A new world, he promised her. He'd lift her far above the ashes, into a new world where it didn't matter that they were both broken, bitter things. A world where she'd shed her pelt and he his feathers. A dream of a child, of a song. Where they could be content in their wanting. She used to wonder what it would be like if he'd been her father, if it would have been a happy home. What it would have been like to live out her days on a rock of sheep and shit. If they'd be safe with ocean between them. But since that kiss in the Winterfell they'd built in the Eyrie, she wondered more often what it would be like if the fair knight in her girlhood daydreams wore his face. The thought of it made her laugh from an anguished place deep in her chest, the idea of Littlefinger- no, Petyr- whisking her away on some valiant, surefooted steed, him drowning in silver armour, sword hanging, cumbersome, at his side. He was no more a gallant knight than she a beautiful damsel. Neither of them had what they wanted, and both of them knew exactly what it would take to get it. But that was the difference between the two of them- he was prepared to do what it would take, whereas she would rather cut that part of her away and stamp it to death in the ashes. 

 

But his game was coming to an end. Winter had come, and gone was the need for knowledge, for power, for wanting, for plans. It was a blind war awaiting them, and his game had no place in it. Littlefinger could climb as high as he wanted, he could twist everyone's thoughts around and around his hands, but it didn't change the fact that whatever they had to face next cared not for games and would just as soon burn down the ladder he so prized, regardless of his machinations. _Family, duty, honour._ Everything else would die, crushed under the weight of the coming snows.

 

'My lady.' In the godswood again, lost in herself, Bran's wheel tracks leading away from the heart tree, dotted with Arya's nimble footsteps. Both Bran and Arya were home again. Home. What a strange word. The more she thought about it, the less sure she was of its meaning. She shook herself, sitting up straighter. The man approaching her seemed far smaller than she'd noticed before. Older, tired. There were hollows under his grey-green eyes, a twist to his mouth that wasn't just from spite. _Littlefinger. Lord Baelish._ No, she corrected herself, searching that face. Laid bare before her now. 'Petyr.' Something about him softened, the ever-working mouth relaxing as he came to stand near her. 'Forgive me, my lady-'

'Sansa.' She gave him the edge of a smile. She could let herself be that for just a little longer, couldn't she? Soon it would be gone forever. She'd been torn in two, just as he had, but she wasn't going to try and straddle the two halves of herself. Just a little longer, she told herself. Sleep a little longer and dream those pretty dreams one last time. 'Sansa', he repeated, the lines around his eyes crinkling into something truer than the farce of a smile he made with his mouth. He sat next to her, close, perhaps a little too close, as he had always done. He saw her as a part of himself, she knew. What need for distance and propriety did he have?

 

She saw the glint of the silver mockingbird at his throat. A far more fitting armour for him, she thought. But it was drowning him all the same. They sat in silence for a long time, no songs from his throat. Almost touching, but not, the both of them staring out at the godswood, backs to the heart tree. She felt little, dwarfed by the immensity of something far greater than herself, her needs and desires. She stole a glance at him, and thought that maybe he felt that way as well. But she was never truly sure. Petyr, maybe. But Littlefinger was cold and unfeeling. Littlefinger protected the other part of himself, ensuring that he was never made to feel small again.

 

He saw her staring and his hand twitched, as though to draw her closer, to brush the hair from her face, to bestow another soft kiss upon her. But he didn't. He dropped his gaze and sighed, a mournful little noise, settling his gloved hands in his lap. 'I've been speaking with Bran and Arya', she told him. 'And?' He was picking at his gloves now, as though trying to clean some invisible speck of dirt from them. She felt anger surge through her as she thought of what those hands had done, white hot and ugly. Keep your hands clean, he'd told her. But he hadn't done that, had he? 'They are changed.'

'As are you.' She brushed the remark aside. 'Bran speaks of many visions. The things he has seen...' _I did warn you not to trust me._ She thought of the dagger in Arya's belt, the one that had been held by those same gloved hands before her. It was a foolish move, giving that to them. It was almost as though he'd given up. She pushed down the desire to cut those hands away, to rip the tongue from his throat, to dash the mockingbird pin to the ground and see what remained. She thought of her mother, how her throat had been cut to the bone, the unfeeling way in which Bran had told her. _She did not feel it for her grief,_  he told her. _But I do not think she expected to bleed so much. I think she believed she flowed with water._ 'And Arya?' His eyes met hers again, and for a moment, just a moment, she could see the ghost of the boy he'd been. 'I do not trust her', she told him truthfully. 'She is filled with bloodlust and anger.'  
'I thought you knew better than to trust anyone.' His voice was gentle. She returned it with steel. 'I do.'  
'You are not happy.'  
'I do not expect I shall ever be happy again. I've made my peace with that.' His face was close to hers now, his breath warm despite the biting cold. 'I wish that I could make you happy', he told her. 'That I could give you whatever you want.' She felt his hand brush her cheek, and it was soft and warm under the glove. She wondered if that was the same hand that had held the knife to her father's throat. He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. 'But I know that I cannot. Just as I cannot undo what has been done to you. What _I_ have done to you.' He placed his hand back in his lap, leaning away again. He looked out at the godswood, at the falling snow, the netted frost on tree boughs like crushed diamonds. 'It is beautiful, is it not?' And he laughed then, a true laugh. 'Peace and quiet', he said, more softly then. 'I hope that one day you get what you want, Sansa. That much you deserve, my love.'

 

She could have kissed him then, she could have pushed aside the anger and hurt that thrummed in the place of a heartbeat, could have wrapped herself up in this sad excuse for a man and run away to a place where they were both nothing and nobody. A place where if she shut her eyes tightly enough, she couldn't see the dirt in the corners and the blood under their nails. If such a place existed outside of beautiful songs. Beautiful, hollow songs. 'It doesn't matter what I want', she told him. She reached out and grasped his hand, longing to feel blood coursing under flesh, something human. Just one last time. 'It never mattered what I wanted.' She felt his hands curl around her own. They were alike, Sansa and Petyr. Both wounded dreamers. Selfish dreamers. But she couldn't afford to dream any longer. 'Then what does matter?', he asked her. 'What do you have left?' She swallowed, the words sticking in her throat. 'Family', she whispered, voice hoarse. It sounded strange to her own ears, to hear it aloud. 'Duty.' Petyr's eyes closed, pain twitching at that thin mouth she knew so well. A mouth that had torn kingdoms apart in the name of what it wanted. She felt blood coursing through her ears, her forehead, her fingertips, her throat. She hated him, she truly did. And yet he was so much like her. Perhaps that made her hate him all the more. 'Honour.' But it was he who said it, not she. Sansa nodded dumbly. Those Tully words, he knew them well. The words that had killed little Petyr Baelish, the lovesick boy from the Fingers, just as they would kill Sansa.

 

The same words that would kill Littlefinger, the monster he'd made to protect himself. They sat, frozen in the closest thing they had to a lover's embrace, hand in hand, face to face, looking at each other. Truly looking. Finally, he nodded. 'Alright then.' He kissed the open flat of her palm, then gave her hand back to her, tucking it close to her chest. He stood up and pulled her to her feet. 'What did you come to tell me?' He was lost for a moment, then he shrugged. 'Nothing.' She didn't know if it was the truth, but it sounded awfully close to it. 'I just came to rest a while.' She nodded, one hand still holding his. 'I'll come and speak with you later, Lady Stark', he said. _Littlefinger will come and speak with you_ , his eyes said. Her hand broke from his. 'Alright then.' And she turned, heading back to the cold stone of Winterfell, his eyes at her back, a broken-winged bird beneath the heart tree. As he had always been. Watching, waiting, fallen from the boughs of the godswood trees.

 

...

 

_You want me to beg for my life? If that's what you want, I will. Whatever you ask that is in my power, I will do._  
_What if I want you to die, here and now?_  
_Then I will die._

'-she'd kill anyone who betrayed her family.' She stared right at him. _Run, you stupid little man_ , she felt like screaming, but that wasn't the Lady of Winterfell's way. Go back to Moat Cailin, take the men you can muster and go. To the Fingers, Essos, Kings Landing, Beyond the Wall, to the ends of the earth, it matters not. She stamped down that old ghost of herself. She was a survivor. This too she'd endure. 'You're her family too', he replied. Had he missed her meaning, or was he dancing the same steps she was? They were both hidden behind masks of their own devising.

 

'What do you think she's after?' She tried to lace her words with clues for him, crumbs. _They're killers. And Arya was one of them._ How could he be so blind? Bran had told her of what he'd seen, what he'd told Littlefinger: chaos is a ladder. But the ladder was now pressed to dust, to ashes. And yet, still he stayed.

 

_Sometimes, when I try to understand a person's motives, I play a little game._ She heard his words as though from far away. He'd always loved games. He always won. But not this time. She wasn't better than him at the game, she wasn't arrogant enough to think that. But she would win this time. He was a man that had done away with fairy stories, with lovely tales of ruby haired princesses and veritable kings. But in doing so, he'd disposed of the monsters of those same stories, of undead and faceless men, of dragons in wolf pelts and all-seeing birds. And he was wanting. Wanting always destroyed you in the end. It was the wanting of other people that had allowed him to make chaos, to climb, to watch and wait and bide his time until the right moment came to claim his prize. As for his own wanting, well, she held it in her hands, gently as a frail chick. But now came time to tighten the vice and turn his wanting to dust. She could cut away his hands, his tongue, strip him of his sigil and his knowledge, and still he would stay. But crush his wanting, and he would turn to ash.

 

She watched the snow fall over Winterfell, thicker and thicker. It would bury them all alive, if they let it. But he was right, in his own way. It was beautiful. She closed her eyes, pressing that image of them in her makebelieve Winterfell at the Eyrie, the snow falling. He'd promised to rebuild it for her. A better world.

 

He'd failed. 

 

Her tongue was swollen and heavy in her mouth. _I just came to rest awhile_ , he had told her. Sometimes, she played a little game. She imagined what it would be like if they met in a different world, whether he would have still found a way to worm himself into her life. She thought of the way he said 'my love', that same mouth that had caused so much pain, the death of so many. He loved her, that much she was certain of. It wasn't the pure, unadulterated love that made its way into myth and legend, but she wasn't so sure that such a thing ever existed. As for love, she had no place left in her for love. _Family, duty, honour._ That was enough in the face of Winter. _In a better world_ , she promised his memory silently. She turned, finally, sick of indulging these dying thoughts of the girl Sansa.

 

_But we don't live in that world. You gave me that knowledge. You know that as well as anyone ever did._

 

Barricaded by rows of silver helmets, by knights who fit their armour far better than he could have ever hoped to. Rendered faceless under the guise of nobility, of honour, of duty and gallantry. Littlefinger, standing in the corner, as he always stood, thinking that he was once again orchestrating the lovely dance before him. Or did he? He was always clever, surely, some part of him had to know.

 

'Are you sure you want to do this?' Arya's words were calm. She fit this new world well, played her role with a quiet dignity that she hoped to attain. She felt her breath quicken, the room strangely quiet, the air thick. She looked down at the hands in her lap. They looked as though they belonged to someone else.

 

 'It's not what I want. It's what honour demands.' She didn't look at him. She didn't have to. Hidden words were something he'd always understood far better.

 

_And what does honour demand?_  
_That I defend my family from those who would harm us. That I defend the North from those who would betray us._

 

'Alright then.' The same words he'd spoken to her in the godswood when she'd told him of forsaking what she wanted. What she so badly wanted. Of taking the burden of family, of duty, of honour over her own desires. The same words she'd said back to him.

'Get on with it.'

 

 'You stand accused of murder, you stand accused of treason. How do you answer the charges', she swallowed, daring herself to sing this song, 'Lord Baelish?' His eyes snapped away from the dance, from what he was so sure were the pieces. It was something like shock. But he had to have known. Hadn't he? Every move he'd told her to anticipate, to see every possible circumstance, to let nothing surprise you, to let it all be something you've seen before. Surely he had to have seen it. But perhaps it was one thing to dream and another to see the grime upon the flagstones, the cold glint of knight's armour, the blades edge in the hand of another.

 

'Lady Sansa, forgive me. I'm a bit confused.' Still leaning against the wall, but hidden in the shadows no longer. His eyes were searching hers, mockingbird gleaming at his throat like a talisman. She'd told him, sung of it in the way he knew best. And he'd answered her. _Alright then._ It was Littlefinger that was confused, Littlefinger that was breaking apart before her eyes. But the boy Petyr knew that he would get his dues. She didn't stand here as Sansa, the girl he loved. She was Lady of Winterfell, he Littlefinger, each mask secured tightly. She'd dreamt of masquerade balls, of dancing upon flagstones, of knights in burnished armour, as had he. Perhaps not like this, but he'd warned her. _Life is not a song, sweetling. Someday, you will learn that, to your sorrow._

 

The time for warnings had run out. This game had an end, and she meant to see it through.

 

She told him of the first charge. Of how he'd made the fish fly. She asked him to deny it. She had no proof but her word. It was baring her own neck, a foolish manoeuver, of that she was sure. Back at the Eyrie, she'd defended him against Lord Royce, against the Knights of the Vale. To go back on her lies was dangerous. But it was honourable, and he deserved that at least, a last reminder of their commaraderie.

 

_You promised to protect me._  
_And I will, you have to believe me when I say I will._  
_You can't protect me, you can't even pro-_

 

'I did it to protect you.' She paused at his words. He was walking willingly into her trap. He knew he was playing a losing side. The honesty hurt more than she thought it would. Family. Duty. Honour. She steeled herself. 'You did it to take power in the Vale.' She spoke to Littlefinger of the next charge, batting aside Petyr as easily as a fly. Littlefinger had done it for power. Maybe not Petyr, but he slipped on the mask so easily that he forgot he wore it. 'Do you deny it?'

 

'Whatever your aunt might have told you, she was a troubled woman.' He stepped into the centre of the room, taking his part as a pawn with open arms. For her, he'd take it, for her he'd lose. It was all slipping from his grasp, like lovely silks, like the little birds he'd brought in from the frost as a child. Like the lovely Cat, always running ahead, Cat who had bled just like the rest of them, despite her river rippled laugh, despite the flash of her trout belly hair.

 

Like Sansa, when she'd pushed him away in the godswood. A pretty picture, she'd told him.

 

He'd told her once that if she wanted him to die, he would die. She'd not answered him when he asked her if she wanted him to beg for his life. Not that day. But today she had.

 

It isn't what I want. It's what honour demands.

 

'Thanks to your treachery, he was imprisoned, and later executed on false charges of treason. _Do you deny it?_ ' She noticed the tears glazing her vision. How long had they been building? She felt anger, frustration, rage, a curdled scream for justice. But she also felt pity.

 

Pity for the man she was about to have killed in the name of three words she now held in place of a heart. Pity for the boy he'd been, for the way those same words had twisted him. Pity for the girl she had been. For the foolish dreams that they had shared together. For the kissing games in the snow. Idly, she wondered if he would bleed like everyone else, or if they would only tear birdsong from his throat.

 

'I deny it.' Littlefinger took hold, scrambling, clawing. It was a monster long in the making. It would not be defeated so easily. '-none of you know the truth.' His voice was getting louder, desperate. What would have happened if she'd kissed him in the godswood, those few hours ago? Would she have been able to let this happen, to play her part as she tore down the final piece of the game? It felt like another life, like two different people.

 

Perhaps that was not so far from the truth.

 

Bran spoke, quiet, detached. Watching. 'You held a knife to his throat. You said _I did warn you not to trust me_.' Littlefinger stopped his singing, frowning at the boy, the monster from stories he'd long since done away with.

 

'You told our mother that this knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister.' Arya had the semblance of a smile as she slid the cold edge of Valyrian steel from its sheath, languid. Waiting. 'But that was another one of your lies.' He turned to face her, unbelieving. Another myth, standing before him, a child with no face, a name as easily discarded as it was acquired, a shadow, come forth in cold daylight. He searched the girl's face, finding no pity, nor in that of the strange many eyed bird who sang far better than he ever could. He turned to the Lady of Winterfell, thinking, perhaps, that at least he could face the monster that he knew, the creature of his own creation.

 

He leaned across the table as he had done so many times before, no need for propriety, no care for distance, or the soldiers at his back. 'Lady Sansa, I've known you since you were a girl.' _I'm frightened_ , his face said. 'I've protected you.' _Rest a while_ , she spoke back to him, _you've played well, but now it is time for rest_. 'Protected me? By selling me to the Boltons?' He shook his head, eyes glazing. She'd never seen him cry. For some reason it made her far more uncomfortable than thoughts of the blood he'd shed. 'If we could speak alone... I can explain everything.' She searched his face. The temptation was overwhelming: to give in to his demand, to let him weasel his way out. But that was not what he'd taught her to do. He'd taught her better.

 

_What do we do to those who hurt the ones we love?_ That had a simple answer. But when the one doing the hurting was also one you loved...  
Loved?  
_Do you deny it?_

 

She leaned back from him, watching that part of her, that sweet little bird, as it tried one last attempt to free itself. Little Dove, Cersei Lannister had called her, but that wasn't true was it? Not that they'd ever know, for a mockingbird could copy any cry.

 

'Sometimes when I am trying to understand a person's motives, I play a little game.' She watched Littlefinger's eyes close, face breaking, fingers white knuckled on the edge of the table. He dropped his head and a part of her wanted to bundle him up in her arms, to nurse him like a child, to cut away the outside world and coddle him and fill his heads with pretty tales. Just one last time.

 

She pressed on.

 

Littlefinger didn't open his eyes again. But Petyr did. He stood slowly, squaring his shoulders, once again walking into a battle that he couldn't win. He didn't have armour, he wasn't strong or brave or skilled with a sword. He wasn't honourable. He had a head full of stories and a heart that had once been soft and warm.

'Sansa. Please.' He was playing dirty now. Or maybe he wasn't playing at all. The room looked at saw the cold, stoic Lady of Winterfell, dispensing the harsh hand of justice. But he saw the girl she had been. The girl he'd hoped to protect, to defend, to use to his advantage.

 

He'd failed.

 

'I'm a slow learner, it's true. But I learn.' She nodded. _And you taught me_ , she whispered in her mind.

 

'Give me a chance to defend myself. I deserve that.' She acquiesed. He flung himself to the side of Yohn Royce, the same man he'd admitted to lying to, to tricking. For her. He sung of his title as Lord Protector of the Vale. Protector. A title of which he had failed on so many accounts, despite every effort. He was denied, and she watched his face as the last remnants of Littlefinger came crumbling down. It was all so intertwined. Littlefinger, Petyr. But she saw every last remnant of Littlefinger turn to ash beneath her feet in that moment. He'd come into the world as a boy with nothing, from nowhere. And despite all his efforts, despite his lust for power, his urge to climb higher and higher, to look up and see only blue sky and sunlight above him, he'd fall. He'd leave the world the same way, the cowardly lord of nothing but sheep shit and pebbles.

 

 But hadn't she done him a kindness, she asked herself? He was losing, but in _her_ pressing the charges, in _her_ declaring his crimes- the murder of Lysa Arryn, conspiring to murder the Hand Jon Arryn, of betraying her father and lying to his beloved Cat, of starting the Battle of the Five Kings on nothing but poison, a blade edge and copied birdsong, had she not given him a little of the glory he so craved? Had she not displayed what a formidable player he had been? None of them had known it, none of them had truly known it until that moment.

 

Lord Petyr Baelish was going to die, but she'd be damned if he would die without every man in this room knowing what that meant.

 

'Sansa.' Her name again, and it was the sweetest hurt. 'I beg you.' His voice broke. He had promised. The words ran again through her mind: _You want me to beg for my life? If that's what you want, then I will._ But couldn't he see that wasn't what she wanted, that it was the furthest thing from what she wanted? Maybe it was what the Lady of Winterfell wanted, she didn't know. But Sansa didn't want that. She wanted him to stand, to turn the whole room in his hands like a magic trick, to burn everything to the ground. She felt untethered, clinging to those three little words that seemed more and more meaningless the more she said them. _Family, Duty, Honour, Family, Duty, Honour, family, duty, honour, familydutyhonourfamilydutyhonourfamilydutyhon-_

 

'I loved your mother since the time I was a boy.' _I was once innocent_ , he said. _Is that not worth something? I once wanted nothing more than to be good, to be worthy._ His last song. And how much it pained her.

 

'And yet, you betrayed her.' He nodded, admitting it. She hoped that he could hear her speak underneath those cold words. _I know that you did. Maybe in rest you can be good, whole again._ She saw the tears in his eyes, and despite the grey at his temples and the lines on his brow, he looked like nothing more than a frightened child. He searched her own eyes, saw the tears that welled up in them. She prayed to all the gods, old and new, that it would give him comfort. She would cry an ocean of tears if it gave him some comfort in those last moments. Like the ocean surrounding the Fingers in her childish fantasies, perhaps they would be safe then. Safe and happy. 

 

'I loved you.' It was as though the whole room was sucked away, and it was just the two of them in the godswood again, buffeted by silence and peacefully falling snow. She could feel his hand in hers as he said those words, on her cheek, the warm blood, living flesh underneath leather, and it took everything in her not to say them back. But he knew, didn't he? He had to have known, even before she did. _I loved you._ And she wasn't sure who whispered it. They were one and the same, weren't they? She had committed just as many betrayals. _I loved you._ Loved. The voice of a dead man, from beyond the grave.

 

_More than anyone._

 

_And yet, you betrayed me._ And again, she wasn't sure who'd spoken. It didn't matter, in the end. Sansa was dying right alongside him.

 

'When you brought me back to Winterfell, you told me that there is no justice, not unless we make it. Thank you for all your many lessons, Lord Baelish. I'll never forget them.' She saw his tortured stare, his tears mirroring her own, the crumpled stature, his fear of rejection, of not being _wanted_ coming to pass yet again, but she also saw something like acceptance, something that plucked at the meaning behind her words. It was true- she'd never forget them, and what had he been but his words, his sweet birdsong?

 

He'd not failed her, in the end. He'd promised to die for her, if that was what she wanted. He'd given her the truth. He _knew_ her. And yet he still loved her.

 

_More than anyone._

 

She was no longer sure that wanting could be cut away. Or that it was as simple as a few words. It wasn't what she wanted, but he'd still not failed her. Not in the end.

 

He dragged his eyes away from the blade, keeping them on her until his last moment. She wouldn't look away, she told herself. She would give him that. She couldn't hold him in her arms, nor was she sure that she wanted to. _Want_. What a fickle thing. But she would hold his gaze until the end. He deserved that, at least.

His gaze flicked down to Arya's approaching hand. It had been a blade that ruined him as a child, the wolf Brandon Stark slicing him in two whilst her mother stood watch. And it was a blade that ruined him now, as she stood over him, with another wolf prepared to finish what Catelyn Stark had forbidden all those years ago. Sansa would not shame him the way that her mother had, she wouldn't cry for mercy. She willed him to meet her eyes in that last moment, and he did. Eyes that had seen so much, soon to be clouded, his songs to be lost in flowing blood, his skin soon to be stained in the Tully red he had loved so much, his knowledge turned to the earth for only the worms to hear. 

 

_No need to seize the last word, Lord Baelish. I'll assume it was something clever._ But it wasn't clever. It was a promise, fulfilled for all those times that she ever doubted that she knew the game, that she knew what he truly wanted. Because you could cut away Petyr Baelish's bloodied hands and his clever tongue. You could rip all the feather's from his shadowed wings. But he would still want. And perhaps, at the end, that was all that was left of a person. What they wanted.

 

_Sansa._

 

 

 

 

   

**Author's Note:**

> To any lovely humans who made it to the end, thank you so much for reading and I hope that you enjoyed it. Feedback is very much appreciated either way. Have a wonderful day and thank you again.


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